


we could be a secret or the real thing

by electrumqueen



Series: Spartacus: Panem et Circenses [4]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Hunger Games</i> fusion. Naevia is from District One; she was never supposed to have to <i>kill people</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could be a secret or the real thing

Naevia is One, that’s the thing. She’s from District One and she’s smart and she’s beautiful but she was never supposed to _kill people._ She was never supposed to stand in the arena with a knife in her hand.

They have Careers for that.

 

“I’m called Crixus,” he said. His eyes were so dark you could drown, cautious in a way that made you forget, almost, that he had slain all comers in his Game without a second blink. He stood in front of her in the ridiculous costume his stylist had given him: gold shimmering all about him, appearing molten at his thighs, as though he had emerged from Two’s forges, cast alight.

She drew her eyes away, back to the sliced length of watermelon. Carefully, she arranged it on the plate into the shape of a rose, juice sticking to her fingers. “I know,” she said. “Your name is all about Panem; I don’t think I could go a block without seeing it on a wall or a screen.”

“I merely wished,” he said, “to put us on even footing.”

At that, she looked up. “Naevia,” she said. “My name is Naevia. Are you lost?”

“A little,” he said, laughing. “Less, now.”

 

Her feet rest on the panel and she is thinking, _don’t step off, wait, wait, wait._

There is all this ice in her blood and she can’t breathe, she can’t - the countdown ticks on, _three, two -_ her muscles tense up and she hears his voice: _run, Naevia, run._

She has not known him a long time but in this, in all things, she trusts him.  
 _  
One._

 

She’d been asked, last minute, to help on the train. She’d spent a summer working in the shop that made all the fancy clocks and there was a worry that some of them might run slow, which wouldn’t do at all, of course. Lucretia Batiatus, Two’s escort, had asked specifically for the shop’s clocks and for Naevia herself, having received enough of her own custom in the time of her rise to prominence. And if she was going to come along she might as well help with some of the preparations, since god only knew Avox work was sub-standard at best - they just don’t take instruction well, not compared to someone who understands aesthetics, as do those from One.

She said yes because why not; she could use the money and everyone’s eyes had lit on Crixus, that year’s Victor, whose Tour it was; if nothing else it would be a good story, she thought. Even if she only saw him from a distance, from the domestic carriage, it would be fun to tell the girls at school.

She had not expected him to say, _you have the brightest spirit of any woman I have ever seen._

She had not expected to lie awake, dreaming of the heat of his mouth.

 

 _Run,_ he says, in her head. _Get as far as you can. Wait it out as much as you can._

She was never much of a runner but now - now she’s got no other choice. All her muscles are screaming and her throat is so raw she might cough blood and she can _feel_ the rocks digging through her shoes but she can’t stop, can’t slow because there are too many of them, too many tributes with her blood on their minds. 

She thinks, _I am already lost._ She is a child of One: she is a child of clean air, fresh water, plentiful food. She has never been so much in the dark.

Her night vision has never been good and this year, the arena is a _mine._

 

Lucretia said, “You and Crixus?” Her hair was the red of a fresh-killed ox, her eyes steel, flint.

Naevia said, “I-” and her heart was beating too fast, she couldn’t think of anything but his hand careful on her shoulder, his warm voice murmuring _you entrance me._

“It’s not _safe,”_ Lucretia said, slow, as though she was trying to protect Naevia. “Naevia, when i asked you to come along, I never thought for a moment - you know what he’s capable of, darling. You can’t - with savage beasts, you can never be safe, not truly.”

“No,” Naevia said, “no, obviously, I mean - nothing’s _happened,_ I haven’t done anything, he hasn’t- he only asked about the clocks and I showed him.” 

She thought about his kind, kind smile. She had seen the footage as much as anyone, the posters of him all covered in blood, but she wouldn’t, if she hadn’t known, put the two of them together: the Victor, and the boy tucking a flower from Eight’s fields into her hair.

“All right,” Lucretia said, leaning in to kiss Naevia’s cheek, the scent of her rosewater perfume overpowering, “just as long as you’re careful, darling. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”

 

There is a river, quietly babbling, curving its way through the rock. She’s not sure about the water quality and she took nothing from the Cornucopia so she only bathes her hands in it, splashes it across her face and dries herself with her jacket. 

Something bobs against her hand and she frowns, runs her hands along it to feel the bumps of a face, of a nose and mouth. She wants to scream but she doesn’t; she pulls the body ashore, into the barest vestiges of light afforded by the single rusty lantern hanging from the wall. 

She remembers faces: it’s the boy from Twelve, Duro; the boy with the brother. There’s a pack on his shoulders and his throat’s wide open, softened by water exposure.  
 _  
Take whatever advantage you can get,_ Crixus whispers.

There is a knife in the pack. She takes it, holds it tight.

 

Crixus’ game was a surprise, sort of. He was no Career; he did not carry himself with the artifice so common to Two’s tributes, the ease of practice that had started to make even the Capitol nervous. He was a furious force to be reckoned with, on the screen, and he did not touch the little ones, only those who came to fight him with knife, with arrow, with fist.

He swore for Cossutius that he only wanted glory in the arena. 

Glory came.

 

There is something moving in the dark. She lies away from the light, knife in her shaking hand. Her breath stills in her chest, growing staler and staler by the moment.

The pool of light on the floor is dirty, yellow. A low scaly form passes through it, a flicker of moment. She does not move but the fangs, dripping, are burned onto her eyes.

 

“I brought you something,” Crixus said.

“Oh,” she said, rolling out of her bunk, “good, I’m fucking starving,” and was so startled she forgot to put her feet down, falling flat on the floor at the sight of the necklace in his hand.

“It was a gift,” he said, “from Twelve.” He rolled his eyes, shook his head a little. “I mean, I asked for it. I bought it. For you.”

It hit her hard, too fast, in the chest, in the heart. “Crixus,” she said, blood rushing all through her eardrums, “Crixus, you’re _Two_ -” You don’t cross District lines. You just – you _don’t._

“You’re you,” he said, very softly. “Is - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have overstepped-” His shoulders slumped; his mouth turned down at the edges.

She closed her eyes and thought of the warmth of his hand, of his laugh; of his kindness and the way he always stood between her and Lucretia, whenever they were in the same room. “You can’t,” she said, very softly, “I can’t take this, Crixus,” and then because she had never in all her life taken something she’d wanted, she pulled herself to her feet and pressed her mouth to his.

 

Barca is Two’s male tribute. He’s tall and lean and elegant of figure and in the training centre he offered her water, murmured, “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

He appears in the dark like something out of a storybook: there’s a light affixed to his forehead and he’s shining, brilliant. He offers her a hand up, says, “Career Districts ought to stick together, for now at least.”

“There’s something ought there,” she says, “something that isn’t us.” She stands up on her own, clenches her fist around her knife. She’s not going to win but she knows that nice means nothing, not in here.

His teeth gleam white in the dark. “Well,” he said, “it best be afraid of us.”

 

They called her name at the Reaping and she turned to Diona, murmured, “well, this is new,” because she’d never been called before. She didn’t even start walking because there was no point, somebody would volunteer for her; that was how it _worked._

Only nobody was - nobody was speaking. 

Diona’s eyes widened. “Naevia,” she said, face pale like a snowstorm, like the blizzard that killed all the tributes four games ago.

Ashur said, “Naevia, come on up,” and Naevia’s feet started moving because Naevia was One: she did as she was fucking told.

 

Water drips from the ceiling, snaking down the back of her shirt. She trips over a rock and Barca stills beside her, whispers, “Did you hear something?”

She shakes her head, barest of movements, visible only in the thin thread of light emerging from the light he’s strapped to his wrist, and then there is a great sound, a snarl shredding the air and the muttation barrelling out of the shadows, into Barca, into Naevia.

Barca’s eyes go wide and his chest rips open and the lizard, a huge ugly thing with baleful yellow eyes and huge dripping teeth, scythe-like claws, looks right at Naevia.

Crixus said, _don’t ever hesitate._

Barca’s blood is everywhere, all over her. The thing bends its head, tearing into the muscles at Barca’s neck with a gross pull, the tendons coming free with a disgusting loud squelch. Barca’s eyes are still bright; they are screaming. His back is pressed against her chest, the only thing insulating her from the muttation’s claws.

She does not think: she reaches through the wet, sticky air, shoves the knife into its throat and that is it, it’s done. The creature chokes once, gurgles too loud, surprised almost, and Barca’s body rolls out of its jaws, pinning Naevia to the ground. 

The ceiling cracks wide open, light flooding the mess of the muttation’s body and Barca’s limbs and Naevia, all covered in blood.

“Congratulations,” echoes Tullius the Gamesmaker’s voice through the arena, “we have our victor.”

 

The head of the Capitol Training Centre was named Oenomaus; he was big, and lean, and he only had one eye. He drew Naevia aside with a warm hand on her wrist, took her to the far corner where the edible plants station that nobody ever went to was; “There’s someone who wants to see you. Is that all right?”

Her heart had been beating so fast for all those days. She thought, she hoped - she could not stop herself hoping. “All right.”

Crixus slipped out of the shadows, eyes gleaming, long-sleeved shirt tight around his shoulders. “Naevia,” he whispered.

She couldn’t remember how to breathe, she couldn’t remember anything; she thought, _if I die now it will be all right, that will be the end._ There would be nothing after this, not again, so - 

Oenomaus smiled at her, said, “make sure you memorize the plants,” and walked away. 

The lines of Crixus’ face were worn, tired; he was still the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. Gravity caught her, pulled her close towards him. She spoke, because she’d always been the sensible one. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? I- this is stupid, Crixus, you’re going to get in so much trouble-”

He kissed her careful, sweet, hand on the side of her face. “I swear,” he said, “I had to see you, one last time. I had to tell you-”

The air was too cold, too sharp in her throat. “Crixus-”

“You’re coming back,” he said, a promise, deadly and dark and deep, “J will always find you; no matter what I will bring you home.”

God help her: she believed him.

 

They dress her in white and brush out what’s left of her hair, the hair that wasn’t burned away by the creature’s acid blood. 

(She will never be clean.)

“You have a visitor,” says her stylist, kindly, before he disappears into the other room.

She isn’t even a little surprised when the door slides open to reveal Crixus, dressed all in grey with flowers in his arms, discarded in a moment for his hand against her cheek, the warmth of which is enough to make her flinch.

“What did you do?” she whispers, steel in her back, keeping her still, so the rhythm of his breath can hold her steady. “Nobody wins like that, nobody wins like I did.” _It was too easy._ Though easy does not even remotely describe the smell of Barca’s body.

He smells warm and sweet, like _him,_ like _safety,_ but there is this faint smell, underpinning all of it - rose petals and copper, bitter and sweet as her victory. His arms wrap around her, pulling her close. “Don’t worry,” he says, “none of it matters, not anymore. You’re here. You’re safe now.”

Her face fits perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. She clings to him, tight, and blinks to clear away all the blood in her eyes.

It won’t go away.


End file.
